Inching Closer
by Flaignhan
Summary: She'd do whatever she wanted to do, with whomever she wanted to do it with.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I watched Iron Man 2 yesterday. This got into my brain. Three parts, should hopefully get the other two out this weekend. Hope you enjoy it. :)

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**Inching Closer**

**by Flaignhan**

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She feels like a naughty child, as she sits there, hands clasped in her lap, knees clamped together, muscles tense. They had been fooling around, comparing her brain activity to Clint's readouts from the previous week, when Bruce had frowned, pulling one of the monitors sharply towards him, and expanding the image. Tony had herded her into a chamber for a more comprehensive scan, giving her what she had assumed to be his attempt at a reassuring smile. It had been unnecessary, because she knows that whatever it is, whatever happens, they'll be able to figure out a way to fix it. They brought Coulson back from the dead, not that she'd ever agree to such drastic measures being taken with her. But all the same, if there's something wrong, she knows that they have the minds and the resources to right it.

Tony's muttering, but Bruce is shaking his head, his eyes fixed on the screen in front of him, his teeth pulling at the inside of his lower lip. He has his arms folded, his fingers drumming against his forearm as he thinks, and Natasha's stomach begins to churn. He's probably just worried because it's her, because he doesn't want to be the one to tell her she's going to need surgery, that she'll be laid up for a few months, and office-bound for a few months more after that. The silence is what's stressing her out the most however. She doesn't understand what they're looking at, or for, and so she's completely in the dark while they discuss things in low murmurs, swiping between images, expanding and contracting three-dimensional wireframes of her brain, casting each one aside when they have gained all the information that they possibly can from it.

Bruce shuts down the images, and they flicker and vanish, leaving the room looking rather dull and ordinary. Before he can open his mouth however, Tony has fired them up again, his jaw set as he inspects each wireframe again, his brown eyes glazed with concern.

Natasha's heart starts beating faster. If Tony's in denial, then it's probably time to start worrying. If it were something fairly easy to treat, even if it would take a long time to recover, he would break the news with a shrug of the shoulders and an offer of vodka. This is different though. He's worried, and he's only ever worried when there isn't a way out.

"Tony," Bruce says quietly.

Tony shakes his head. "Let's just take another look," he mutters. With a wave of his hands, one of the blue models of Natasha's brain expands, filling the entire room, and Tony strolls around it, his brow creased as he pauses, looking at a certain spot, deep within her temporal lobe.

"Tony," Bruce says again, even more softly this time. "Tony, we need to tell her."

Natasha's stomach lurches as Tony's shoulders sag, and he lets out a sigh, shutting down all the images with one frustrated sweep of his hand.

"_Fine_," he says sharply. "Fine." He strides over to the small metal cabinet in the corner of the lab, opens the doors, and, after a small amount of noise, turns around with a glass of whiskey in one hand, and a glass of something clear in the other. Natasha suspects that this is for her.

He crosses the room and presses the glass into her hand, then drops onto the chair next to her, swallowing down half of his whiskey in one go, before he looks up to Bruce, standing awkwardly in front of them.

"Tell me," she says, her voice weaker than she had intended. She clears her throat, and says, more firmly: "Just tell me, Bruce."

Bruce takes his glasses off and folds the arms in, holding them loosely in his hand as he paces slowly in front of Natasha and Tony, his expression telling Natasha everything she really needs to know.

"It's an aneurysm," he sighs. "You must have had it a while, it's uh…well, it's looking quite fragile."

An aneurysm. How _normal_. She will not die in combat, not on the battlefield during an alien invasion, nor will she be facing down an opponent with twice her mass, twice her strength, and twice her firepower. She'll probably collapse in a store, be rushed to the hospital, and lay there, a vegetable, until Fury finally gives the order for the plug to be pulled, knowing that the limbo will be worse torture than anything else she has ever endured.

"The position of it is incredibly hard to get at without causing irreversible damage," Bruce continues. "We're not advanced enough, not even the best robots with the smallest instruments could get in there to fix it."

Natasha nods and takes a sip of her vodka. Next to her, Tony is staring at the floor, his whiskey tumbler held loosely in his hands.

"Well maybe she doesn't need a temporal lobe," Tony says offhandedly. "Maybe we could - "

"Yeah, that's a great idea. She doesn't need to speak, doesn't any sensory recognition, doesn't need to store visual memories…" Bruce interrupts, one eyebrow raised, his arms folded across his chest as he looks down at Tony.

"Well when you put it like that," Tony mumbles, running a hand through his hair.

"How long?" Natasha asks, her voice surprising her with its steadiness. She doesn't feel calm about this, in fact her insides are swirling with panic. This isn't something she can defend herself against, she can't punch and kick and bite until it goes away, this is something fundamentally wrong with her.

"It's difficult to say," Bruce says with a grimace. "It might not even rupture at all, and if it does then there's still a chance that if we get to you in time that you might be able to survive and maybe recuperate…"

"We're gonna fix it before it ruptures," Tony says determinedly. "It's gonna rupture, it's a miracle that it hasn't already, but we're gonna find a way to fix it, and we're gonna fix it."

"Tony - "

"No," Tony argues, standing abruptly and dropping his glass onto the nearest workbench with a loud clunk. "When the palladium that was keeping me alive was slowly killing me, I created a new element. We can figure something out to fix her. We're two of the smartest people on the planet, our resources are limitless, there has to be something we can do." He paces anxiously around the lab, wringing his hands.

"Tony, that kind of technology is - "

"We can invent it," he snaps. "And if we can't, then what's the _point_ of us? What's the point of you and me being in this lab if we can't even save her from a god damn aneurysm?"

"I'm not saying we won't try," Bruce stresses. "Of _course_ we'll try. But the brain is so complex and - "

"Loser talk," Tony interrupts, shaking his head, before he turns back to Natasha. "I promise you," he says, lowering himself down onto his haunches so he can look her dead in the eye. He takes her hands in his, an uncommonly intimate gesture for both of them, but she doesn't pull away. Her heart slows a little at the contact, her breathing a little easier as he stares at her earnestly, his eyes wide and bright. "I will not stop until we find something to fix this. Bruce and I will figure something out, somehow, and you'll be good as new. I promise."

She wants to believe him, but when she glances over to Bruce, leaning against the work bench, his expression grim, she knows that Tony is searching for a miracle. His god complex is a little more of a problem than she initially thought, if he thinks he's capable of producing such things. But then she looks down, sees the ridge of the scar that signifies where his miniature arc reactor used to be, and decides that maybe, if it's a miracle she needs, she's probably in the best hands.

"Don't tell anybody," she says abruptly. The last thing she wants is to spend her last few weeks or months being prodded and poked by doctors, while all of her friends tip toe around her as though she's made of glass. She's not fragile. There's just one tiny piece of her that is, only a few millimetres, but that's more than enough.

"We're gonna have to tell Fury," Bruce sighs. He gives her an apologetic look and Natasha takes another sip of her vodka. "You're probably gonna get grounded for…well, for the foreseeable. We need you to be close by in case," he pauses, struggling for the right words. "In case we come up with a fix. We'll need to act quickly."

Tony nods in approval, but Bruce hasn't mastered blind optimism in quite the same way as Tony. She doesn't exactly need x-ray vision in order to be able to see straight through it.

"Don't tell Clint though," Natasha adds. "Or Steve…or anybody…" She trails off, then takes another sip of her vodka. She doesn't think she could face people if they knew, she wouldn't be able to handle their sad expressions, their attempts at comfort, or their words of condolence. She would be far more likely to take off without a moment's notice if that were to happen, and then if Tony and Bruce ever did manage to find a solution, she'd be miles and miles away, probably out of contact, and she'd end up dying alone in some remote place, far out of reach of her friends.

"Natasha, it's nothing to be ashamed of," Bruce tells her kindly. "There's nothing you could have done to prevent this."

"I know," she replies, the crack in her voice betraying the melting pot of emotions storming around her body.

"It doesn't make you weak," he continues. "It's just one of those awful, awful things."

She nods, then stands abruptly, Tony rising too. She sets her glass down next to his, before resting her hands on the edge of the workbench. She doesn't know what to do. Bruce is going to tell Fury as soon as she leaves this lab. He's obliged to. She can't be going on missions when she's a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any minute and potentially destroy the entire assignment. She's a liability. She's never been one of those before. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply, focusing on getting her heart to settle into a steady, gentle rhythm. High blood pressure won't do her any good at all, will only inch her closer and closer to her premature death, and so she tries to stay calm, but it's nearly impossible when her world is collapsing around her and there's nothing she can do about it.

She flinches when a hand lands softly on her shoulder, and she turns around to find Bruce standing close to her, the lines of worry forming on his forehead.

"We'll do everything we can," he says. "I promise."

She nods, and part of her yearns for a hug, for a little bit of human contact that can give her reassurance that things might, they just might end up being okay. But she's the Black Widow and that's not her style, so Bruce remains at a respectful distance while she presses her lips together tightly, an uncomfortable lump building in her throat.

"We'll start right away," Tony adds, striding over to one of the monitors and bringing up all of her medical records with a few rapid gestures. "And we won't stop until we find a cure, okay?"

"Thanks," she manages to say. "I'll see you later," she adds, before ducking out of the lab and heading down the corridor without a backward glance.

"Wait, what's the date?" Tony's voice is faint as she walks quickly away, and she speeds up as much as she can without breaking into a run.

"November twenty-second," Bruce answers absentmindedly. "Why?"

Tony swears, but Natasha rounds the corner and breaks into a sprint. She needs to get out. _Now_.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Part two for your enjoyment. Hope you like it! Part three might be tonight.

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**Inching Closer**

**by Flaignhan**

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"All the vodka," she says, slurring her words as she clings to the bar. "All of it."

The music is pounding in her ears, the bass vibrating up through her feet and pulsing somewhere in her chest. It's so loud that she can't think, which is good, and the vodka is helping her on that count. She doesn't know why she ended up here, only that she got home and had been ready to destroy her entire apartment, but had decided instead to put on a dress and show up to Marquee, bypassing the long line stretching all the way down the block and heading straight to the bouncer. He had let her in without question, much to the displeasure of those near the front of the line, but there are plus sides to being one of Tony Stark's friends.

"Honey, don't you think you've had enough?" the barman asks, leaning over the counter and half yelling so she can hear him.

"It's my birthday," she calls back. "And this afternoon I found out that I'm dying."

The barman pulls away slightly, his eyes scanning her face. "Seriously?" he asks.

She doesn't say anything, just raises her eyes to meet his as she tries to swallow the lump in her throat, and after a moment, the barman grabs the bottle of Zyr from the back shelf, then pours a large amount into a glass for her. He shovels a couple of ice cubs into it and places it down on the bar. Natasha pulls her card out of her purse but the barman catches her wrist before she can give it to him.

"No charge," he says, his face holding that same expression that Tony's had when he was promising her he'd find a cure. She doesn't like being looked at like that, but she appreciates the free vodka all the same. The barman places a gentle kiss on the back of her hand before releasing her, and Natasha picks up her glass, taking a small sip of her drink. It's a million times better than the cheap shit they've been dealing out so far at the bar, reserved most likely for celebrities with a vague idea about alcohol quality rather than the normal hoards of beautiful people permitted in the club.

"I should have started dying sooner," she says with a small smile. "Thanks." She downs the rest of the vodka, no easy feat given the barman's generosity, and by the time she sets her glass down he is down the other end of the bar, serving a group of baseball players she vaguely recognises.

Her head swimming, she saunters back to the dance floor, all her years of perfect poise paying off as she doesn't stumble once in her skyscraper heels. She doesn't recognise the song blaring out of the sound system, but it's got a strong beat and a melodic bass line, so she begins to dance, her eyes closed as she tries to ignore everything that happened before she entered the club this evening. She can't help but get flashbacks to the afternoon, snippets of conversation, brief glimpses of concerned gazes.

_It's gonna rupture, it's a miracle that it hasn't already. _

She grits her teeth and dances harder, her body moving synchronously with the music. No amount of vodka could ever see her dancing off beat, but she focuses more on what she's doing anyway, of each roll of her body, the sway of her hips. It's not long before some asshole starts grinding behind her, but a swift elbow to his gut sees him on his way and she is left alone for the next few songs, the heavy bass causing her insides to quiver unpleasantly.

_It's nothing to be ashamed of._

Except it is. She's supposed to be at the peak of human fitness, she's supposed to be at the top of her game. She should be able to outstrip olympians in every respect. And yet here she is, getting drunk in some stupid, elitist night club because her god damn blood vessels are worse than pretty much everybody else's in the city. It's not _fair_.

It's her comeuppance, she supposes. All that red in her ledger had to go somewhere after she wiped it out. It's been biding its time, eroding away at her without her even knowing it. It scares her. She's always been aware of when she's been under threat, has always known when she's under surveillance, has always been able to tell when she's in immediate danger. Now it's her own body that's turned against her, and she can't run, she can't hide, and she can't bring out the big guns. All she can do is accept her fate. The worst of it is, she won't even have warning. There won't be a security alarm, the thundering of footsteps or the cold click of metal on metal as a pistol is cocked. One day, and soon, it'll spring up from nowhere, will be like a hammer to the skull, and then she'll collapse, maybe in the middle of a street, maybe while driving, or maybe while she's making herself some coffee. If she's lucky, she'll survive, and if she's even luckier, she won't be too badly brain damaged. She's always made her own luck though, and this is something that's out of her hands.

_She doesn't need to speak, doesn't any sensory recognition, doesn't need to store visual memories…_

The thought of losing everything that she values about herself causes her stomach to lurch unpleasantly, and her eyes snap open as acid rises in her throat. She staggers towards the bathroom, pushing her way through the crowds, ignoring it when she catches her heel on the toe of someone's shoe, her ankle twisting painfully. The door crashes open and she barges past the line of women waiting to use the facilities and stumbles into the most recently vacated cubicle, just in time for the contents of her stomach to land with a disgusting splash in the bottom of the toilet bowl. The disgruntled comments from the other women fade into insignificance as Natasha heaves again, a mixture of bile and vodka splattering against the porcelain. The door bangs and she hears several pairs of heels clicking their way out of the bathroom, only a few, hardier women remaining behind to take advantage of the suddenly shortened line.

When she's certain she's empty, Natasha fumbles with the silver handle affixed to the toilet and pulls it down, a whirlpool of water washing away her overindulgence and idiocy. She pushes herself awkwardly to her feet and pulls open the cubicle door, her mouth sour as she takes unsteady steps towards the sinks. She turns on the faucet, cool water gushing into her hands, and she splashes some against her face, ridding herself of that sickly sheen of sweat that leaves her skin crawling. She rinses her mouth out, spitting the water back into the sink, slightly discoloured from the remnants of bile clinging to the inside of her mouth, and, her head pounding and ears ringing, she grabs a couple of paper towels, pressing them against her damp face.

It's cool in here, the windows left ajar and letting in a pleasantly chilly breeze. She sinks down to the tiled floor, her back against the wall, and draws her knees up to her chest. She's a fool for getting so drunk. Alcohol won't keep her alive, and it won't even drown out the cruel reality that she can't escape from. She buries her head in her arms and breathes deeply, her eyes prickling at the edges as she tries not to think about all the things that she's yet to do. If she'd died on a mission it wouldn't be a problem, it would have been for the greater good and that's enough for her. But to have this death sentence hanging over her, rendering her a useless liability, she can't handle it. She can't handle the fact that one god damn blood vessel can not only deprive her of her work, but her life. There are things outside of SHIELD that she wanted to do, things that, once she'd settled her debts, she could have gotten involved in without any lingering feelings of guilt.

She's too young for this. _It's not fair_.

"Babe, are you okay?"

Natasha looks up to see a concerned brunette in a tight, sparkling dress crouching down awkwardly, her chunky platform heels setting her balance way off kilter.

"Fine," Natasha croaks in response. "Thank you."

"You want me to get you a cab?"

"No, really," Natasha tells her. "I just need a minute."

"Okay babe," the woman says with a soft smile, reaching out a hand to touch her gently on the forearm. "Let me know if you need anything."

Natasha nods and rests her head in her arms once more as the clomp clomp clomp of the woman's heels disappears into the distant blaring of music. She grips her hair, fingers squeezing it tightly, before she remembers that that's not going to do her blood pressure much good either. She chews on her lower lip as she comes to the slow realisation that short of laying in bed and watching very dull TV, there's nothing that she can do that won't make her situation any worse. She's faced with the prospect of waiting for Tony and Bruce's miracle cure, and spending what might be her last few days in a near vegetative state, or else making the most of her last moments on this earth, and ensuring that if nothing else, she won't be playing the waiting game for long. The latter is tempting, but she knows that if she even dares to consider it, Bruce and Tony will break the news to everybody, and she'll be put in a padded cell for her own good until they find a solution.

Part of her thinks that a bullet through the brain might be a better way to go. Quick and easy and she won't even notice it. There'll be no risk of spending the rest of her life being fed through a tube, because she's not stupid enough to administer anything less than a kill shot, and apart from that, she'd be the one in control. It would be her own choice, and she could choose the time, the place, and ensure that she's as ready as she'll ever be. She could go somewhere nice, somewhere that will calm her, just before she calls it quits.

She could even go home.

The bathroom door bangs open, and one of the girls applying lipstick in front of the mirror squeals in shock.

"What the hell d'you think you're doing?" another demands angrily, shoving her mascara back into her purse and rounding on the intruder.

"Get out," he says darkly, and the girls don't need telling twice. They scuttle out of the bathroom, casting a look over their shoulders at Natasha before they leave. She frowns as she waits for the trespasser to cross the threshold into the hallowed ground that is the ladies bathroom. When she sees him, she blinks, lets out a small, unamused laugh, and shakes her head.

"What are you doing down there?" he asks, his dark eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

"I wanted to sit down," she says simply.

"You've been crying."

She looks up at him, and were it not for his long, unkempt hair, he might fit in here. He's managed to find himself a smart pair of grey tailored trousers, and a jet black shirt, crisply pressed, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. With his tall slender frame and gaunt, symmetrical features, he's probably passed himself off as some sort of fashion model. When she doesn't say a word to him, he crosses the distance between them, crouching on his haunches so he can look her in the eye. After a moment's hesitation, he reaches out his hand, his thumb softly brushing away a solitary tear trailing down her cheek. She doesn't flinch at the contact. There is nothing that can scare her now. She hardly even cares what he's doing here, because at the rate she's going, it's not going to be her problem.

His hand is lingering against her face, and to have that physical contact, the warmth of his touch, to be anchored to life when she feels like she's so close to the exit already, is more comforting than she would ever admit. It seems like a stupid idea, but really, she has nothing left to lose. She moves forward, her fingers brushing a stray lock of hair out of his face. His brow twitches in confusion, but before he can say a single word, she closes the gap between them, capturing his lips in a soft albeit clumsy kiss. She's very conscious of the fact that she's just been sick, until moments later he reciprocates, his hand sliding into her hair as he sinks onto his knees, pressing their bodies closer together.

She doesn't give a damn that he's killed people. Nor does she give a damn that he tried to take over the world. It's become quite obvious to her today that the world couldn't give any less of a damn about her, so she's making the disinterest mutual, levelling the playing field. Why should she care so much if all it amounts to is an early grave because of something that she can't do a single thing about?

She breaks away from him, pressing her lips to his throat as her fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. If she's going to die, then she might as well go in a blaze of glory, and drunkenly fucking an alien god in the bathroom of one of the most exclusive clubs in New York City is nothing, if not a blaze of glory.

"This is unexpected," he murmurs, his fingers brushing softly against her scalp while his free hand finds her shoulder, his finger sliding under the strap of her dress and pushing it to one side.

"D'you have a problem with it?" she replies between kisses. She scrapes her teeth against the tender skin of his neck and he inhales sharply, closing his eyes and biting down hard on his lower lip. She reaches the final buttons of his shirt and pulls it off of him, tugging the sleeves over his toned forearms before she tosses it aside, her heart beating faster and faster with every moment that passes. She's sure she can feel it, deep within her brain, pulsating as her blood pressure increases, but she's beyond caring.

"You _are_ drunk," he says, pulling away from her, a touch of colour rising in his pale cheeks. "And upset."

Natasha laughs hollowly, but her attention is caught by the chatter of voices outside the bathroom door. She braces herself for a dozen judgemental glares, but the door never opens, and the people never come.

"I put a sign up," Loki tells her. "Out of order."

It's rather fitting. She is broken after all, in more ways than one, and a glance in the full length mirror at the other end of the bathroom really brings it home just how much. Her mascara is smeared, thin black tracks lining her cheeks, her lipstick has been lost somewhere between the vodka and the vomit and Loki's lips, her hair is a mess, tousled, tangly, her parting uneven. And yet, as she looks at Loki's pale chest, more toned than she had expected, his shoulders broad, the hollow of his collar bone more inviting than the club outside, she decides that she would rather be a mess, in here, with him, than face the world that lies beyond those bathroom doors.

"I'm dying," she says abruptly. She doesn't know why she's telling him, of all people, when she can't even tell her friends. It's not like he even has any free vodka to give her either. She supposes she just wants him to know that there's a reason she's sinking to this level, that under no other circumstances would she ever be here, on the bathroom tiles, with her legs wrapped around him. Dying's a pretty good excuse for anything, really.

"I know," he says softly, and there is no malice in his tone, no smugness. He simply raises his hand, his thumb brushing against her cheekbone, wiping away the damp residue of long forgotten tears.

She doesn't question it. She just pulls him close, her lips colliding with his. He doesn't pull away this time, doesn't have any last minute flashes of conscience. Instead he raises her up, sliding the skirt of her dress up as Natasha tugs at his belt, relief washing through her when it comes loose and she is able to unfasten his trousers. It's not long before the pulsating in her head is forgotten, along with her fear of what the future doesn't hold for her.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **Finished! Later and longer than intended but we're finally at the last part. Enjoy!

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**Inching Closer**

**by Flaignhan**

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She's never drinking again.

Her brain feels like it's too big for her skull, her mouth is dry, her throat is sore and her limbs feel like they weigh ten tonnes each. And still, in amongst the hangover, she is certain she can feel that blood vessel straining in the centre of her head, each pump of blood wearing it down further and further, bringing her closer and closer to her final moments. She stares at the ceiling and lets out a heavy sigh. She doesn't remember making it home, but apparently she did. She's still wearing her dress, the zip digging uncomfortably into her flesh. She reaches around to her back, unzipping it awkwardly before wriggling out of the dress and kicking it onto the floor. The movement tires her out, and she reaches for the edge of her duvet, pulling it up around her shoulders and snuggling into it, determined to sleep through the rest of the day.

She can't switch off however, and while part of her wants to deal with that problem by going and fetching more vodka (despite her promise to herself that she would never touch another drop) the rest of her is just too damn drowsy to even consider getting out of bed. She opens her eyes, squinting at her alarm clock, and notes that it's four thirty in the afternoon. Baffled, though not enough to dwell on it, she buries her face in her pillows, the thudding in her head beating a steady rhythm, lulling her into sleep.

She feels a little more human when she awakes later, the sky outside pitch black, and the pounding in her head reduced a distant, but constant ticking. She pushes herself up, her hair all over the place, and combs her fingers roughly through it, before she swings her legs out of bed, her balance a little off as she stands. She stumbles towards the door, grabbing her dressing gown and wrapping it tightly around herself before she heads into the lounge, where everything is just as it should be. For some bizarre reason she feels as though the world, or at the very least, her apartment, should reflect the mess that is her dwindling life, but no. Everything is spick and span, there is not a single piece of furniture out of place, no abandoned mugs of coffee waiting to be washed up, nothing. It's perfect. If only her body were in a similar state, then everything would be fine. She could carry on as normal without being constantly aware that she's counting down to detonation.

But she can't carry on as normal, not even _close _to normal, because all the time she's standing in the kitchen, making herself coffee, she can feel the constant _throb, throb, throb,_ deep within her head.

* * *

"They're working around the the clock."

"I know," she says, sliding down in her seat and letting out a sigh. She taps her fingers on the arm of her chair and looks around Fury's office. This isn't a conversation she wants to have. Ever. There's no escaping him however. She's amazed he even let her have the weekend.

"Stark's determined to find a fix."

"I _know_," she says again through gritted teeth.

"And I think he's got a pretty good chance of succeeding," Fury adds, shifting in his chair and surveying Natasha with his one, beady eye. She resists the urge to roll her eyes, but she needn't bother. Her resignation is written all over her face and is plain for him to see. He leans forward in his seat, reaching across the table and gesturing for her to place her hand in his. She reluctantly complies, and he closes his fingers gently around her hand, his rough fingertips the result of many years on the battlefield. "They won't stop until they find something to make this right," he tells her, fixing her with a stern gaze. "You're not checking out early on us, no way."

She looks away from him, clamping her jaw shut and blinking rapidly as her lower lip gives a small but ominous quiver. She doesn't do serious conversations like this. She doesn't do hand holding and pep talks and meaningful looks. It's the sort of thing that would have her running for the nearest exit, but Fury's already locked all of the doors so she can't make a run for it. He knows her too well.

"In the event that we run out of time," he says quietly, giving her hand the faintest of squeezes. "There are secondary measures we can - "

"_No._"

"Natasha - "

"No Tahiti," she says firmly, managing to find some strength for her voice from somewhere. "I mean it Nick, no Tahiti."

He lets out a heavy sigh and Natasha extracts her hand from his, sitting back in her chair and folding her arms across her chest.

"It would just mean - "

"_No_."

He gives up, though whether he's giving up on the idea or just the conversation, she cannot tell.

"It probably won't even come to that."

"It's _never_ going to come to that," Natasha tells him through gritted teeth. "If I die, I die, okay? Don't start playing god with me." She looks down at her feet, inhaling slowly as she considers her next words. "And…if I don't die, but I'm as good as…"

"Natasha - "

"Do the decent thing and put a bullet in my skull, okay?"

"Not a chance," Fury says, shaking his head. "Not a god damn chance."

"You'd rather have me spend the rest of my life as a…" she trails off, her mind plagued with images of the possibilities. Her, laying in a hospital bed, unable to speak, unable to feed herself, wash herself, while the others visit her and sit quietly by her bedside because of some stupid sense of duty. Even if not that extreme, she might not be able to walk, might not be able to live independently, might not be able to defend herself, should any of her old comrades ever track her down. Living in a constant state of vulnerability is no way to live. Not for her.

"It's _not_ going to come to _that_," Fury says determinedly, but then he lets out a sigh and rubs his face tiredly with his hand. "But, should you not come home one day, for whatever reason, not because of this, this is just me asking for an entirely separate reason."

Natasha quirks her brow in disbelief but Fury continues regardless of her attitude.

"Is there anyone you'd like us to get in touch with? Anyone who, after all this time, you might want us to track down?"

"No." Her mind wanders briefly to Loki, to their stupid, ridiculous encounter in the Marquee bathroom, but as much as she tries to push him and it from her mind, she can't rid herself of the memory of her clinging to him, of her fingertips digging into his shoulder blades, of the cool wall tiles against her back, of the taste of him, his sweat, mingling with hers leaving their skin damp as they created their own safe haven in the corner of that damn bathroom.

He can find out in his own time that she's gone, she doesn't want the hassle of breaking it to Fury that she spent the last memorable part of her birthday getting fucked by one of their most lethal threats. She doesn't think dying would get her off the hook for that one. In fact, he'd probably go ahead with the Tahiti project anyway, just to bring her back so she can explain herself. Besides, she doesn't owe it to Loki to ensure he gets a letter of condolence upon her demise. She doesn't owe him a god damn thing.

* * *

It's another two weeks of suspicious sidelong glances from Clint and frequent meetings with Fury in order for him to remind her that she's not allowed to die just yet, before Tony comes barrelling into her office one afternoon, his eyes wide, bloodshot with tiredness, his hands shaking from too many sleepless nights.

"We've done it," he says, blinking heavily as though he can barely believe it himself. "Come on, quick!"

A cold weight drops in Natasha's stomach. If she's about to be rushed into an experimental procedure, then these could be her last few moments. The walk to the lab might be the last time she uses her legs, and the words she utters to Tony and Bruce before they put her under could be the last time her lips manage to form a sentence. These beats of her heart, rapid and nervous, the breaths she draws into her lungs with forced steadiness, every single bodily function that she has ever taken for granted could potentially be performing its encore without realising it.

She swallows the nervous lump in her throat and follows Tony to the lab, her pulse beating so loudly in her ears that it sounds like a booming bass drum. Her palms are sweaty, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. She never gets this nervous. _Never_. She wonders if Fury will show, if he will be the last thing she sees, or whether it will be the ceiling of one of the medical facilities as she slowly loses consciousness.

When they reach the lab, Bruce is there, dark circles under his eyes, and what looks like a highly complex remote control in his hands. He breaks into a tired smile as she enters, and this is the closest she comes to reassurance. If Bruce thinks they've gotten somewhere, then she might just stand a chance of getting through this.

"We made a model of your brain," Tony tells her, gesturing to the plastic mound on the workbench. "And of your veins, arteries and blood vessels. We've got the whole network mapped out."

Bruce is following the progress of his remote control device on one of the monitors, his eyes fixed on the screen as he moves his thumbs carefully over the controls.

"Obviously on a model it's slightly different, but it's actual size and we've had eleven successful attempts so far. Bruce is just having one last shot before we do the real thing."

Natasha frowns. "So when you do it on me, it'll be your thirteenth time doing it?" she asks, raising her eyebrow. She's not superstitious, or at least she wasn't, until brain surgery was involved. Bruce pauses and glances sideways at Tony, skewing his lips to one side.

"No," Tony says, that everlasting optimism shining out of him. "It'll be our first time doing it on a _human_."

"Well that makes me feel a lot better," she sighs, approaching the workbench where Bruce is deep in concentration once more, his eyes on the screen as a flimsy section of plastic that she assumes is supposed to represent her weakened blood vessel appears. "What is it?" she asks quietly, her fingers curling against the edge of the counter top. She resists the urge to tap them nervously against the plastic, and Bruce pauses once more, focusing his attention on her.

"It's a very fine length of aluminium," he says. "With micro joints every two millimetres. It means we can control its exact shape by running a really low current along it."

Natasha looks down at the tiny thread like length of metal trailing out from the base of the brain model, and chews anxiously on her lip.

"This'll get us to where we need to be," Bruce says. "It was always the location that was the issue, but this is small enough to fit through your blood vessels without touching the sides. Once we're there, we can get things fixed and you'll be good as new."

Natasha looks up at him, her skin prickling uncomfortably, and she shifts her weight from one foot to the other. "You really think so?"

He nods, and it's this that settles her fluttering heart. Tony, as clever as he is, and as hard as he's been working these past couple of weeks, she knows would take the attitude that she's going to die anyway so she might as well die while they're trying to fix her. Bruce on the other hand was probably the one who insisted upon a dozen test runs before they even considered bringing her into the lab. She thinks she knows who she wants handling that remote control while she's out for the count, and she fixes Bruce with a meaningful look before, eventually, she nods her consent.

"D'you want me to call Hawkeye?" he asks quietly. "I think it might be easier for you if he were here."

Natasha shakes her head and folds her arms across her chest. She doesn't want any fuss. She'd rather just get on with it as soon as possible, before she has the chance to change her mind. She looks down at the strip of aluminium, glinting under the bright lab lights, and is struck by the image of it coiling its way through her veins like a slender snake, hunting down her vulnerabilities.

"We need a fresh scan before we go in," Tony tells her. "Just to see what the situation is."

Natasha nods, and soon she is loaded into one of their high tech chambers, the entire thing whirring loudly while lights flash and sensors bleep. When it's all over and she hears the clunk of the automatic lock releasing, she exits the pod to see Bruce and Tony surveying the images, eyebrows drawn together in deep frowns, while Bruce shakes his head.

Her stomach jolts. She had almost been on the verge of accepting her fate, had been inching closer and closer to optimism, to the idea that she might actually come out of this all right. Bruce's steady hands and the fineness of aluminium had filled her with the smallest bit of confidence, but now, as she watches them, deep in confusion, she feels her last hopes flutter to the floor, like the last dregs of confetti from an air canon.

"Have you seen anybody else about this?" Tony asks, glancing up at her from the screen.

Natasha shakes her head. "No, I haven't even told anybody, why?"

"No treatment? Nothing at all?" Bruce asks. When Natasha shakes her head, he looks down at Tony in disbelief, then slips his glasses on, and moves his face closer to the screen.

"You've not been taking Steve's formula?" Tony adds. "You've not reinvented Erskine's secret serum without telling anybody? 'Cause if you have, I know one guy that's gonna be _pissed_." He points, rather obviously, towards Bruce, who rolls his eyes and straightens up.

"You've not seen _anybody_ else?" Bruce asks again. "Nobody at all?"

"_No_," Natasha tells him through gritted teeth, her frustration building with every moment. She doesn't know what the hell they're playing at, but it's stressing her out, and she can feel the gentle _throb, throb, throb,_ inside her brain. The last thing she needs is for the damn thing to rupture moments before they administer treatment, but with every dim beat, she is more and more certain that at any moment she's going to feel that sharp crack, and it will be her last moment.

"Come here," Bruce says, gesturing her towards the monitors. He removes his glasses and rubs his face tiredly, then shifts over slightly, nudging Tony and his wheeled chair to one side so that she can get a good view. He puts one reassuring hand on her shoulder while he gestures to the monitor with his glasses. "This is the spot where your aneurysm was," he tells her, and Natasha stares at the images as Tony swipes between them, showing different angles and resolutions.

"Was?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't have it anymore," Bruce tells her, unable to keep the bafflement from his tone. "It's not there." He collapses into his chair and rests his elbows on his knees. "I don't understand."

"Well it must be there," Natasha tells him. "I can _feel it_."

"No you can't," Tony says abruptly. "You can't feel it."

"Yes I _can,_" she snaps. He doesn't know what it's like, he's never had one before, he can't speak from experience. He's been given a death sentence, yes, but he's never had the actual ticking of the timer going off in his head. He's never had to suffer that cruelty.

Tony spins around on his chair to face her. "Even if you _did_ have it, which you _don't_, you wouldn't be able to feel it."

Natasha glares at him, but then Bruce chimes in quietly. "Psychosomatic," he says.

"I'm _not _crazy."

"No, but you are human," Bruce replies. "You get told you're dying, naturally, you feel like you're dying. You get told you're cured, even if you're not, then you'll naturally come around to the idea that you're in perfect condition."

"So that's what you're trying to do?" Natasha says, folding her arms across her chest. "Tell me I'm fine to try and kid me into thinking I'm not gonna die?"

"Natasha," Bruce says softly. "We wouldn't have spent the past two weeks creating technology years ahead of its time - "

"Decades," Tony interrupts.

" - just to try and use some hokum psychological bullshit on you. We've developed a method of treatment but we don't need to _use it_. Look at the scans, you're as good as new."

Natasha stares at him for a moment, then reluctantly turns her head to look at the screens. She doesn't even know what she's looking at, but then Tony zooms right in on the clearest image, and points to something that she can definitely recognise as a blood vessel. He swipes his hand in front of the screen and the image is replaced with one nearly identical, but for the dark shading around the blood vessel, indicating the weak spot.

"That's cellular regeneration," he tells her. "Like actual superhero style cellular regeneration."

"That's not possible," she murmurs, taking a step back from the screen. "Are you sure you're looking at the right part?"

Tony gives her a withering look and she turns back to the images, swiping between them so she can compare. It's a morbid game of spot the difference, but the only difference is, one of them is a death sentence, and one of them is an extended warranty.

"You're _certain_?"

"We'll run a few more scans to be sure," Bruce says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs at the ankles. "But I'd bet everything I have that you're gonna be fine."

"Maybe the initial diagnosis was wrong?" she suggests, knowing that the chances are slim. After the amount of tests they ran on her, there was no way they could be mistaken. She's seeing the evidence right in front of her, but she has absolutely no idea how she could have gone from one to the other in the space of two weeks without seeking out any treatment. Nobody even knew she was dying, except for Bruce, Tony, Fury and, she remembers with cold realisation, _Loki_.

* * *

She shoves open the door and slams it behind her. It's a ridiculous conclusion to arrive at but it's the only one that actually makes any sense. The alternative is that she has somehow developed crazy self healing powers since her diagnosis, and that's slightly more unbelievable than the notion that Loki had anything to do with this. Slightly.

She shouldn't be surprised when she walks into her lounge and he's waiting there, leaning against the far wall, circling the tips of his index finger and thumb against each other absentmindedly. Her memories of him from the nightclub are hazy, warped by vodka, and completely unreliable. Something about him this time seems far more subdued than their last sober encounter however; he looks tired, his eyes dull, and it feels as though he's looking straight through her until he blinks, straightens up, and pushes himself away from the wall.

"What did you do to me?" she demands, her fists clenched at her sides. She doesn't care that this is a fight that she could never hope to win, all she wants is to beat the living shit out of him. He's been inside her head, without her consent, and even if he's fixed her, even if he's plugged that potentially fatal hole in her head, it's still not right. Apart from that, she highly doubts that he was simply doing a good deed, there must be a catch, there's _always_ a catch. He's probably implanted something in her head that means he'd be able to control her with a snap of his fingers, or else turned her into his own personal spying system, getting a constant feed of everything she sees and does.

"I saved your life," he says with a scowl. "Some sort of gratitude wouldn't go amiss."

"You've been inside my head," she argues. "And you're the person I trust least in the universe. Why the hell would I thank you?"

"_I_ haven't been inside your head," he replies pointedly, bristling at her words. "_No one's _been inside your head, we're not that primitive."

Natasha glowers at him, unsatisfied with his lack of an answer, and he lets out a dramatic sigh, casting his eyes up to the ceiling in exasperation.

"The healers on Asgard resolved your issue," he tells her. "I simply delivered you to them and then brought you back here afterwards. It was a very simple procedure, you needn't worry about any side effects."

"I don't trust you," she says weakly. She has been given incontrovertible proof that she's better, that she's not dying, but the fact that this miracle was administered by Loki, in the dead of night, without her consent, is too much for her. It's like the devil himself has decided to become a guardian angel, and that's impossible.

"I'm not asking you to trust me," he says plainly, shrugging his shoulders.

"Then why are you here? Why now?" Her brain conjures up the awful idea that he might be here for a repeat of their Marquee experience, that he might think that she wouldn't need to drink half her weight in vodka before she would consent to have him touch her again, but his next words close the lid on that idea completely.

"Heimdall informed me there was some confusion, and that you might want an explanation." His words are plain, simple, and reasonable, but Natasha still can't wrap her head around them. It doesn't make _sense_.

"But why would you even get involved in the first place?" she asks. "Bruce and Tony were - "

"Going to shove a wire into your brain and hope for the best," he retorts, his lip curling in distaste. "It's nothing short of _barbaric_."

"But why would you even _care_?" she presses, running a frustrated hand through her hair. "Last year you tried to kill me, _all _of us. And now you're keeping watch? Creeping around in the dead of night like you think you're the god damn _tooth fairy_?"

Loki exhales softly and looks down at his feet, his heavy boots shifting against the floorboards as he considers his next words, which are so quiet, Natasha almost misses them.

"I've got red in my ledger," he murmurs, before looking up at her and fixing her with a penetrating gaze that causes Natasha's heart to freeze in her chest. "So I thought I'd start with you."

* * *

**The End**


End file.
